


What’s the Return Policy for Unfallträchtig?

by BatsAreFluffy



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League (2017), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Everybody loves Martha Kent, Fluff, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, We just can't leave you alone for ten seconds, because it's ridiculusly hot right now, hair petting, seriously Bruce?, so much fluffy, vaguely around the winter holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-23 00:22:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15594123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BatsAreFluffy/pseuds/BatsAreFluffy
Summary: Winter in Kansas can be a winter wonderland, filled with bread, cookies, treats and stupidity. My first gift fic for Amaronith :)





	What’s the Return Policy for Unfallträchtig?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amaronith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaronith/gifts).



> Author’s Note: I am taking total liberty with the layout of the Kent kitchen, backyard and land. If Bruce bought the bank, then he probably had a few dozen things fixed as well while he was at it.

The Queen of Snow and Ice seemed to be rejoicing that Superman was once more among the living. She seemed to be under the impression that he wanted everything to look like the frozen wasteland that the scout ship had been put down into that fall. The entire mid-west was a frozen festival devoted to ice, snow, frost and cold. So cold that travel was ill advised and many plans had to put off until the January thaw - if that even arrived. 

Icy roads meant nothing to a being that wasn’t driving and the cold meant nothing to him, either. Clark had promised Martha that he would be home just before the holidays to help with the annual bake marathon that happened in the Kent kitchen. Martha had been baking for Clark’s schools, scout troops, alumni committees and the local churches for so many years she didn’t have the heart to stop after Clark had grown up and moved away to the big city.

Clark ran over the list one more time as he set down in the back yard. Bunched against the cold in his pack, four different berries were shielded from the cold by graham crackers, flour sacks, icing sugar, and more cinnamon sticks than Clark knew what to do with. Martha’s list read more like an inventory of a local farmer’s market than a shopping list for a woman who lived alone. This wasn’t even the whole list – she’d been stockpiling various dry ingredients and dough in the freezer for a month. 

Shaking the snow from his hair, he stepped in the mudroom off the kitchen. He hung up his coat, careful of the rich woolen one on the other peg, and the patched downy one on the window hook. Everything shucked off, he stepped into a kitchen scene no one would have ever expected. 

Martha was dressed as normal, with a multi-pocket apron tied on. Her ‘helper’ had been settled at the tiny table in the corner, with one of Clark’s flannel shirts pulled over a fine cotton weave shirt. Bruce Wayne looked totally out of place in a room that used geese and pigs as the theme for decorating, with an old mug that proudly proclaimed “Lettuce Turnip the Beet! Music Fest ‘79” beside him filled with coffee. Nimble fingers worked on braiding dough strips into small loaves, twisting the ends neatly and placing them on the tray. 

Clark didn’t know how his Ma had convinced Bruce to come down, but what had started as a vague idea of having ‘that lonely gentleman’ for a afternoon tea sometime ended up with Bruce reluctantly settled in the guest room upstairs for a week. He’d muttered something about being ganged up on as he unpacked several warm sweaters and thermal socks. Clark didn’t ask, but he had a sneaking suspicion that Alfred and Diana had both had a hand in it. 

“Where’d you learn that?” Clark asked, dropping the bags off in the sink. Despite his speed, they were still covered in snow. 

Bruce shrugged. “It’s not that hard. Braid leather, braid dough. It’s the same thing.” He looked over the tray of even loaves. “Alfred used to make candy canes like this.”

“Never could make mine strong enough to hang,” Martha commented, snooping through the bags. “Then again, with you and your Pa ‘helping’ me so much in the kitchen, it was a wonder that anything got to the cookie jars.” She pushed a ramekin of egg wash over to Bruce. “Two coats, dear. You sure you don’t want to help make these up? You must be terribly bored over there in the corner.”

Bruce shook his head, hiding a smirk in his coffee. “I made a promise to Alfred that I wouldn’t poison anyone this holiday.”

Clark laughed, snitching a loaf fresh out of the oven. “C’mon, you can’t be that mean, Bruce.”

“Being 'mean' has nothing to do with it. It's all to do with my talent, or lack thereof, in the culinary arts. You want something grilled over a fire pit, I can do that. You want Beef Wellington, Alfred is the gentleman to ask.”

Clark shook his head, bemused. “Something the great Bruce Wayne can’t do. Can I have the exclusive?” His fingers flew out to catch another loaf as it came out of the oven, only to be rapped sharply with a wooden spoon.

“Enough snitching, you. Be a dear and go get the extra canning jars from the shed.”

“I’ll go,” Bruce said, standing up and stretching the kinks out of his back. “It’s getting a tad warm in here, what with all the roasting.” He leveled a fake glare at Clark. “Where in the shed, Mrs. Kent?” 

“Martha, dear. The second shelf, left side. Two boxes should do.”

After the door slammed shut with the wind, Clark sank into the chair and sped through the last of the rolls, handing the finished tray to his Ma. “How did you convince him to stay, Ma?”

“Oh, Alfred did most of that. He told me to keep Bruce busy here, and let him rest up after that last concussion. Seems to have broken his left ear drum, too. He’s favouring that side, you know.” She wiped a hand across her forehead. “Bruce is right, getting rather warm in here.”

Clark frowned. “He didn’t mention that.”

“You didn’t look?”

“Ma, you raised me better than that. That’s invading his privacy, and you know how much that means to him.”

“He gave you guff last time, didn’t he?”

Clark laughed again. “Yeah, just a lot. Alfred was happy, though. Saved him a trip to the ER, and making up yet another excuse. And this close to Christmas, the ER is a mad house.”

Martha rolled her eyes. “Your Pa went there the second year we were married. Got the nifty idea to try out the electric carving knife on the turkey – while it was still frozen. Damn idiot nearly lost a finger when the blade snapped in half.” 

Clark shook his head. “Why?”

“Said it would thaw faster that way.”

They were both laughing when Clark’s hearing picked up a sharp crack outside. A second later, a shout – “Clar-!” and a muffled splash.

The door slammed open, sending a cascade of snow onto the drying boots. Clark was outside before the first snowflake hit the ground, around the house to the back shed as it touched the ground. Coming to an abrupt halt, he scanned the frozen yard – there! Another splash, and he dived left around a snow bank to see a gaping hole in the ground, two boards splintered at the mouth. 

“Bruce!” He lifted up and dove straight down into hole, reaching Bruce even as the man’s ears caught the sound of his name.

“Cl-Clark!” Bruce sputtered, shaking already. Ice chunks lay broken beside his shoulders as he tread water. 

“I’ve got you, hold still!” Clark pulled him up sharply, backing up until he was above ground again. He switched to a bridal carry, with Bruce’s head tucked under his chin, as soon as he cleared the wooden boards. Another short burst of speed, and he was in front of the back door, shoving it open with his hip. “We’ll get you warmed up, Bruce. Just breathe,” he coaxed the shivering man. 

“Tr-Tr-Trying,” Bruce panted, muscles jerking randomly. 

“Oh dear Lord, did he fall into the well shaft?” Martha cleared the chair closest to the warm oven. “I’ll get the warm blankets, get him out of those clothes, son.”

Bruce tried with feeble fingers to pop a button on his cuff. Clark pulled his chin up. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m going to strip you now.” At the playboy’s huffed laugh, Clark smiled and, in a whirlwind of activity, had the soaking wet garments off him. Another second, and the worst of the water was toweled off him. 

Martha dropped a pile of blankets in front of the oven, passing one to Clark. “This one first, it’s the softest.”

“Thanks, Ma.”

Less than five minutes after being in the frozen well, Bruce was wrapped in three heavy blankets, teeth slowly chattering less and less. Martha had slipped a warm mug of apple cider into his hands. She crouched in front of him, with a wry expression on her face. “Only you would be unlucky enough to find the only well shaft that was out there, and break through boards that have been there for 15 years.” She reached out and ruffled Bruce’s wet bangs away from his eyes. “You silly boy.”

Bruce’s eyes drifted close as he leaned into the touch. “It’s a gift,” he murmured, bashful. 

“Take my advice, Bruce, return that particular ‘gift’.”

**Author's Note:**

> End Note: Thank you Google Translate – Accident Prone is unfallträchtig. Hope so, at least.


End file.
